


Thaw

by LauraAnneB



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fat Shaming, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Past Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2020-11-25 15:48:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20914598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LauraAnneB/pseuds/LauraAnneB
Summary: Inquisitor Maxwell Trevelyan’s abuser is discovered hiding among the templars he’s allied with. Devastated, Maxwell begins to doubt his decisions, and the voices of demons become ever more persistent. Can he find a way forward? Can mages and templars?





	1. Maker, my enemies are abundant

**Author's Note:**

> Artwork of Maxwell done by the amazing Stef Tastan. Please check out more of her work!

Rion wiped his clammy hands on his robes as he waited at the door to the Inquisitor’s chambers in the main hall. The guard’s eyes narrowed. Rion couldn’t blame her for her disapproval—who would come speak to the Inquisitor after midnight while smelling of ale?

It had taken minutes of convincing to get the second guard to deliver his message. “Please, just tell the Inquisitor,” he’d begged. “If he’s upset, it’ll be on my head. Tell him that Rion of the Ostwick Circle just saw Dale Cadogan in the tavern in the camp below Skyhold and called for his arrest. He’s in the dungeons now. Please. Inquisitor Trevelyan needs to know.”

Rion should have sent a messenger. Going himself had made sense at the time, but the walk from the army camps at the foot of the mountain to the main keep had sobered him up. Did these guards see only an untrustworthy mage stirring up trouble? Was that why it was taking so long?

_Perhaps the Inquisitor won’t even believe me. _Rion and Inquisitor Trevelyan hadn’t been friends in Ostwick’s Circle. Trevelyan had been as staunch a Loyalist as Rion had been a staunch Libertarian. Fortunately, the Inquisitor had accepted him as an agent of the Inquisition after Rion had explained he’d seen the worst of the mage-templar war and wanted to end it. But how far did the Inquisitor’s trust in his old Circlemate extend?

Ages seemed to pass before the second guard returned. “The Inquisitor will see you now.” Rion followed the guard up the stairs.

He wished he knew what he were walking into. All he knew was that four years ago, a surprise midnight inspection by Ostwick’s templars had caught Dale Cadogan in Trevelyan’s private chambers.

The templar and his patrol partner, Gwendolyn Carter, had been imprisoned. Clearly, they’d cried blood magic, for Knight-Commander Stevens had also imprisoned Trevelyan and locked the Circle down, suspending classes and barring visitors. Mages had only been allowed to leave their rooms for an hour each day while supervised.

The Order’s investigation had continued for weeks; every member of the Circle and the Order, it seemed, had given at least one interview. Once the investigation was finished, the Order had lifted the lockdown and declared Trevelyan innocent of all charges. Life in Ostwick’s Circle had resumed. The Order had apparently expected every mage to pretend their home hadn’t become a prison overnight.

Cadogan and Carter had been cast from the Templar Order. The Order had charged Carter with “accepting bribes, and aiding and abetting criminal behaviour.” They’d charged Cadogan with “fraternizing with mages and interfering with Ostwick’s Tranquil.”

Fraternizing. Interfering. Such polite names for abuse.

Trevelyan, a shy young man, had seemingly had no friends after that, even among his own faction. He’d stopped going to the chapel, when once he’d gone daily. He’d either asked to move from his private chambers to the common dormitories, or Circle leadership had forced him to. Likewise, he’d either left his job as a junior librarian in the Circle library, or lost his post. Rion knew only rumours.

Rumours hadn’t stopped some from throwing Trevelyan’s past in his face. Rion frowned at the memory. Three years ago, Rion’s lunch table had been discussing the impossibility of peace between mages and templars.

“The Loyalists will always bow to our jailers,” Ewen had been saying, his voice low but his expression fierce. He’d glanced at Trevelyan, who was passing by with his tray in hand, to sit with his fellow loyalists. “Bow or more, as we all know.”

Rion had laughed, automatically and uncomfortably. At least he hadn’t smirked, as some of his friends had. Trevelyan had glanced at their group, then looked away just as quickly. Maker, did the Inquisitor remember that stupid laugh?

Ewen had always been cruel. Rion wished he’d been able to foresee the lengths he would go for mage freedom.

The guard knocked on the interior door, bringing Rion’s focus to the present. At the Inquisitor’s “Enter,” the guard opened the door.

Coming from the darkness of the stairs and the few torches, the Inquisitor’s room was so bright it hurt the eyes. Every candle was lit, and a fire burned in the fireplace. The Inquisitor’s bed, of simple Free Marcher design, had been impeccably made. The Inquisitor sat on his couch by the fire, wearing his customary silverite chainmail and white leather, which contrasted handsomely with his ebony skin. The only hint that he’d just been asleep was his chin-length locs lacked their usual golden and silver beads.

He stood when Rion entered, his brow furrowed. “I’m going to need you to explain, Rion.” He spoke quietly and crisply, as if he was still a junior librarian at the Circle.

Rion swallowed. “I was drinking in the templar barracks below Skyhold.” At the Inquisitor's surprised expression, he added, “Sounds mad, I know, but we're all on the same side these days, aren't we?

“As I said my goodbyes and left, I smacked into a hooded man. His hood fell back, and I saw it was Dale Cadogan.”

“How do you even know his face?”

Inwardly, Rion cursed. He should have remembered Trevelyan had been sitting in a prison cell when the Order dismissed Cadogan and his conspirator. “Ostwick stripped him and his partner of their armour in front of Ostwick’s Circle and the Order. I remember them, Inquisitor.

“The circles under his eyes are darker, and he has a few more wrinkles, but it’s him: same pockmarked face, same droopy left eyelid.”

The Inquisitor’s frown deepened. “I see.”

“When I recovered my wits and demanded his name, he named himself Darrell Kensington of Kaiten.” He swallowed, recalling the buzzing in his ears and the sour feeling in his stomach.

“I called for his arrest. My teammate, Belinda, brought him to the dungeon herself.” Maker praise Belinda. That moment had been a test of the unlikely friendship that had grown between mage and templar as they’d fought the Inquisition’s enemies side by side. “Then I rushed back up the mountain to tell you.”

The Inquisitor cleared his throat. “Is there any chance you may have been mistaken? You did say you’d been drinking….”

Rion shook his head. “Seeing him sobered me up, Your Worship. Once he recognized me, he knew he was found out. I saw it on his face, clear as day.”

“I don’t mean to doubt you, but….” He shook his head. “This sounds impossible. My surname is well known. He must have known I was the Inquisitor. Then..._why_?”

“Lyrium, if I had to guess. There have been enough dead templars in the mage-templar war that he might have found a suit of armour that fit him. Then he likely took advantage of the fractured Order and lied that he was from a small Circle.” Everyone knew Kaiten had had few survivors, mage or templar.

The Inquisitor inhaled slowly. “Lyrium. Of course. I should have thought of that.” He focused on Rion as he asked, “I don’t suppose you mentioned why Cadogan was cast out of the Order?”

“I said he’d abused mages and Tranquil without mentioning the specifics. After that lie about his name, Cadogan stopped trying to defend himself.

“I’ve no intention of saying anything else,” Rion added to put the Inquisitor’s mind at ease. “It’s hardly my story to tell.”

The Inquisitor nodded, his gaze drifting away from Rion. “Amina died at the Conclave,” he said softly.

It took Rion a shamefully long moment to remember who Amina was. Rion had hardly been the studious type. He barely even remembered what the Head Librarian, Amina, looked like. He recalled a young elven woman, but that was as far as his memory went.

“She wanted to go,” the Inquisitor continued. “And I encouraged her. The Tranquil needed a voice in the proceedings.”

“I’m sorry, Your Worship. I know you were good friends.” After Ewen had attacked and killed Enchanter Lydia, he’d ordered his friends to run. Rion had only remembered the Tranquil in Ostwick’s Circle when they were leagues away.

“I don’t suppose you know much about the…situation with Cadogan?”

“Only what led up to the lockdown—”

“That he was found in my room when I was 16,” the Inquisitor clarified coolly. Rion noticed for the first time that his hands were laced behind his back.

_Sixteen? Maker, at four years ago, that makes him only 20, the poor soul._ Feeling ill, Rion nodded. “And then what I heard when the templars passed the sentence.” A memory bubbled to the surface. “Ewen did say a young man in his dorm came out of his interview and wept the rest of the day. Though given my source, I don’t quite trust that tale. Sometimes Ewen just said things to sound important.”

The Inquisitor’s lips had pursed at the name. Rion imagined Trevelyan, Senior Enchanter Lydia’s prized student, had helped build Lydia’s pyre once the worst of the fighting at Ostwick’s Circle was over. “I don’t suppose Ewen said how young this young man was?”

Rion racked his memory, but all he could do was shrug helplessly. “I don’t recall, Your Worship. Our dormitories weren’t with the children, though, so…there’s that, I suppose.”

The Inquisitor sighed heavily. “All these years, I wondered if….” He shook his head. His gaze sharpened as he looked at Rion. “Thank you, Rion. You’re dismissed. Andraste watch over you.”

“You as well, Inquisitor. And…Maker, I’m sorry for all this.”

“As am I.”

Ewen had sneered “Bowed or more,” at Trevelyan. Had anyone ever tried to approach or befriend him after his ordeal? He’d certainly needed a friend. If Rion or any other Libertarian had bothered to befriend him, he might have trusted his fellow mages enough to accept the aid of the rebel mages. Instead, the Herald of Andraste hadn’t even gone to Redcliffe to treat with the rebels. He’d run straight to the Templar Order.

Perhaps even friendship with a Libertarian wouldn’t have made a difference. Trevelyan had been a Loyalist before his imprisonment, and he’d remained a Loyalist after. _No matter his politics, someone could’ve stepped up._ I _could’ve._ But Rion hadn’t.

There was no use dwelling on a world that wasn’t. Rion wasted a fleeting moment on regrets for things unsaid before he walked down the stairs to the main hall.


	2. Many are those who rise up against me

Immediately after Rion left, Maxwell asked the guards to summon a messenger.

“Please retrieve a list of every templar in the Order. I believe Knight-Commander Barris keeps a copy.”

Maxwell stared into the fire, which burned bright but gave off no warmth, no matter how close he stood to it.

“I missed you, love,” Dale would say when he slipped into Maxwell’s room at night. Maxwell had felt so grateful. Nobody else ever saw him, he’d thought, not the way Dale did.

The messenger returned quickly with the list. Of course, Ser Barris was likely up and dealing with an impostor among the Order. Maxwell skimmed the list as quickly as he could, and found no Ostwick templars. He’d checked the lists in Haven, but he’d needed to double-check. 

He sighed in relief, murmuring his thanks to the Maker. Only Rion knew anything about the situation, and he’d said he wouldn’t tell.

Though Ser Barris could even now be interviewing Dale and learning the true story. And, Maker, former Knight-Captain Denam was also imprisoned. Who knew what Dale was telling them?

_How can I stop this?_ Maxwell reviewed his options helplessly. _Do I send this messenger back to Barris, demanding he halt any investigation? The Order is autonomous—I hardly have that kind of authority._

He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. A faint rustle of cloth reminded him that the messenger was still in his chambers. His eyes snapped open and he straightened. How he missed the days when he’d been an unnoticeable nobody in the Circle.

_Papa always said a good night's rest brings a clear morning no matter the weather. _After sleep, Maxwell would deal with Dale's sudden reappearance. He'd know what to do then. Once the shock wore off, Andraste would show him the right path.

He smiled apologetically at the messenger, a young dwarven woman, as he handed the list back to her. “Thank you for your service at this odd hour, miss. Please return this to Ser Barris with my thanks.”

“Yes, Inquisitor.” She bowed before leaving him alone.

_Another young man, Rion said. I was 13 when Dale started speaking to me, but then, I looked older._ _So he never touched children. Unless he did and we just didn’t know. _Circle and templar leadership were the only ones who’d known the results of the investigation into Dale’s abuse. Maxwell had never spoken with anyone about the findings. He’d wanted to put everything behind him.

Maxwell could barely feel his hands as he took off his finery to change into his nightclothes.

_I could ask Dale if he touched children, I suppose. There’s nothing I can’t ask, now._

_He lied to me and he hurt my friend and fellow mages, yet I still want to speak to him. Maker, what does that say about me? _

Maxwell couldn’t help glancing at the swell of his pectorals and stomach as he changed into his nightclothes. Nobody said anything to his face, but he knew they were all hoping he’d lose that excess weight. How could he command armies if he looked like a pudgy librarian?

Once, Dale had chuckled as Maxwell offered him cookies from the care package his father had brought. “Sure, I’ll have one,” Dale had said as he put on his shirt. “You don’t need more, do you?”

Maxwell’s face burned with shame. Tears sprang to his eyes. _I loved him._ He felt ill just thinking the words, but he couldn’t deny them.

At first, Dale had just been the templar who asked for books every month. “All a ruse to talk to you,” he’d admitted years later. “Barely read a word of ‘em.” When he’d heard that, Maxwell had kissed him, thinking how romantic he was.

At first, they’d spoken about books. These conversations had always been so brief, so quiet, so tantalizing; a few words one week, a few sentences the next. They couldn’t disturb the peace of the library, after all. Gradually, they’d started to speak of other areas of their lives.

One day, when Dale had touched his hand while accepting a book, Maxwell had ignored it. Sometimes, people accidentally touched. The other touches—a hand on his shoulder here, a friendly nudge there—hadn’t been accidents, but by then he’d been too embarrassed to bring up how much he disliked people invading his space. His templar friend was a peasant’s son; probably, the lower classes were more physical than nobility.

Dale had told crude jokes, as well: a comment about where the librarians kept the dirty spellbooks; a joke about the uses elemental spells could be put to. Maxwell had squirmed with discomfort but hadn’t said anything. What did it matter if they had different senses of humour? He’d enjoyed his friend’s company too much to make an issue out of it.

And when they’d started giving each other gifts and Dale had slipped him inappropriate drawings, Maxwell had been so used to silence that he hadn’t said anything. He’d known it wasn’t right, but he’d kept them and enjoyed them anyway.

“We could do what they're doing in them drawings, if I grab the night shift,” Dale had whispered to him a month later. “Would you like that, lad?”

Maxwell had nodded, too embarrassed to say 'Yes.' He’d felt so proud to be treated as an adult, with an adult’s desires. _This must have been why I never connected with those my own age_, he'd thought then. _They’re children_, _and I’m a man, or close enough to one_. _He wouldn’t have noticed me otherwise._

He’d never realized how lonely he was until he met Dale. It was as if he’d just realized how deep his hunger ran right before he stepped into a banquet hall. He’d never be lonely again.

It had been so easy for Dale to become his whole world.

Maxwell wiped his eyes. He despised tears. He’d wept for days in that cursed cell, missing Dale, terrified that the Order might name him a blood mage.

He doused the fire in the fireplace, pulled his covers back and lay down in bed. He closed his eyes and recited the Canticle of Trials. _I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade_. _For there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker's Light_. _And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost._ He switched his sleeping position from back to stomach to sides dozens of times.

“I’m sorry, Trevelyan,” Knight-Commander Stevens had said briskly. “We’ll need to examine your skin for cuts.” When he’d tried to keep his underclothes on, she’d added, “_All _of your skin.” He’d been forced he bare himself in front of Stevens and an unknown templar. They’d examined every part of him. They’d even made him bend over and spread his buttocks.

Maxwell rose from his bed. He lit the logs in his fireplace with a small expenditure of mana. Even a few months ago, it would have taken him much more effort. His power had grown so much. Was the Anchor the cause, or just his combat training?

He grabbed a random book from his shelf and started reading. Normally, he hated starting a new book before finishing his latest, but as it took massive concentration to read the first sentence, it seemed a moot point.

“Papa, please help Dale,” he’d begged his father. They’d been in Bann Trevelyan’s room at the Circle. His father had stayed there for weeks after Maxwell’s release from the dungeon. “We were going to run away together. I gave him directions to Fairbrook Hall. If he arrives, I beg you to take him in. If not that, then at least give him some money. Please.”

Papa had watched him, lips pursed in anger, gaze cold. Maxwell’s stomach had churned at the sight. Maxwell’s perspective had shifted in the years since that moment; of course, his father hadn’t been angry at him. Oscar Trevelyan had been ready to storm the Circle if the templars had declared Maxwell a blood mage.

Normally, Maxwell would have shrunk from confrontation. So deep was his feeling that he’d tried again. “I love him, Papa.”

Oscar had flinched. Sucking in a breath, he said, “Max, I’m going to forget you asked this of me. I suggest you do the same.”

Maxwell wished his father were here. Tears welled up again. _Stupid, fat little boy. All those books and I still can’t learn how to keep my head._

Maxwell’s day started before the sun. He tried to keep each day as similar as possible when he was at Skyhold. The world outside was mad and terrifying, and each day brought countless new challenges. Routines helped him focus.

Five in the morning: cold water and exercises. He stretched for 10 minutes, did his squats, pushups and planking for a half hour, then cooled down with 10 more minutes of stretches. Once, he’d only been able to exercise for 10 minutes without getting winded. His body might still be more fat than muscle, but at least he could endure longer and lift heavier objects.

At six in the morning, he bathed and, every second day, took care of his hair. He washed his scalp and locs, drying each loc thoroughly, then moisturizing them with a mixture of argan and chamomile oil. Maxwell twisted a few of his loosening locs. When he was younger, he’d had a bad habit of twisting his locs until they broke, so he made himself stop after a few touch-ups.

He chose his jewellery next. The Trevelyans had sat in Fairbrook Hall since the Steel Age. They were mostly Free Marchers—they sent any mages in their line to the Circle rather than raising them as hedge mages, after all—but still kept some Rivaini traditions. One of those traditions was elaborate accessories. Maxwell decided on golden loc beads engraved with the Inquisition’s eye, then silver beads engraved with the Circle’s sigil, then bronze engraved with Ostwick’s albatross. He tried to place each bead exactly in the same place on each loc.

“Gwen’s getting twitchy,” Dale had admitted, carding his rough hands through Maxwell’s hair. “Seems I ain’t paying her enough to keep her trap shut. Don’t s’pose you could ask your da for something pricier than cookies?”

The thought of Dale leaving had chilled him to the core. “I’ll ask Papa for some beads or rings. Would gold be enough? I have no idea how much being a templar pays—”

Dale had interrupted him with a kiss so deep his head spun. “Gold is perfect, my sweet boy.”

Maxwell hesitated before continuing to add his beads. They were symbols of his wealth, power and heritage. Whatever today held, he would at least look like the Inquisitor.

After Maxwell’s bath and hair care, he was usually starving, though he couldn’t muster much appetite today. Breakfast was toast with sprouts, a bit of salt and pepper, and hardboiled eggs. Maxwell would have loved a mound of pancakes with syrup and butter. He considered asking the servant to return to the kitchen, but didn’t, and glumly choked down his toast.

He dressed in his silver armour, which he usually wore at Skyhold. He’d never wondered why he gravitated toward that outfit. Did it scream to anyone with eyes that he’d been betrayed before and was trying to protect himself?

Voices whispered on the edge of his consciousness: he could be safe forever—untouched and untouchable. He could be wreathed in flame or cloaked in a black hood. When he screamed, it would not be sobs in the dark; his screams would deafen the world.

It would be easy—just a cut to the flesh he hated. Fat, ugly little boy. They all laughed at him. They all pitied him. If they knew what he’d done with Dale, they’d cast him aside.

Breathing deeply, Maxwell repeated his exercises: _Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. I am Maxwell Trevelyan, of the Ostwick Circle of Magi, and I have completed my Harrowing. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children. I am Maxwell Trevelyan, of the Ostwick Circle of Magi, and I have completed my Harrowing. _

The voices subsided. He took off his armour and dressed in his sapphire-blue formal wear, with a yellow sash, gloves and boots and silver buttons. It showed more of his gut than he would like, but he’d just have to suck it in.

His mirror showed the Inquisitor looking back at him.

“Did he hurt you?” he’d asked Amina quietly. Maxwell had brought the loyalists of Ostwick’s Circle to Fairbrook Hall; he remembered the hum of bees in the garden and the smell of his grandfather’s prized roses.

Amina had been sitting on a bench, reading a book on Rivaini culture “so as not to offend your family unknowingly.” She’d had some Rivaini blood, as well, to judge by her loosely curled hair and her pale brown skin, but clearly no cultural connection to the land.

She’d hesitated for a few moments before saying, “I understand that you were also affected by the actions of Dale Cadogan. I would not speak of things that would cause you emotional distress.”

“Please, I need to know.” His stomach had roiled with shame. Even now, Maxwell winced to remember. If Amina hadn’t been Tranquil, would he have asked that painful question? Or had he taken advantage of her trapped state, just as Dale had? “There’s no one else to ask—not that senior leadership would have told me the results of an investigation, anyway. No one else knows.”

“During the night shift, Dale Cadogan raped me infrequently throughout a period of two years from 9:36 Dragon to 9:37 Dragon.”

He'd stammered something useless. Until the Conclave and Haven’s destruction, he’d never felt more distant from Andraste and his creator.

“He threatened me and my family with death if I told anyone. He had come to the Alienage to take me to the Circle, so he knew where my family lived. He specifically made sure his actions would not result in a child.”

“And—and no one knew?”

“His partner, Gwendolyn Carter, knew. Sometimes she watched or pinned me down. It seemed to amuse them.”

“I’m so sorry.” His stomach had ached with shame. “He—he only got to you because he’d gotten to me for years already. I was—” his eyes began welling up “—I should have—if I’d told someone, they wouldn’t have gone after you. They—”

“That is true,” she said, in her affectless Tranquil tone. “But you did not.” She looked at him for a few moments before saying, “I hope you will not continue to feel distressed about past events. You did not know what was happening to me.”

She’d been wise: there was no use to dwelling on what couldn’t be changed. He’d wept anyway. _Why, Andraste?_ he’d begged his silent goddess._ Why her? She did nothing wrong, not like me…._

Andraste had given him no sign on how to handle Dale’s reappearance. For once, Maxwell was looking forward to the morning war table meeting (eight in the morning every day except Sunday, to make time for chapel). Focusing on the world’s problems might help him gain perspective on his own.

* * *

The morning’s meeting had gone as well as it could, considering Maxwell’s distracted state. Most of his advisors’ reports had been preparations for the assault on Adamant Fortress. In a few days, they’d be leaving for the Western Approach. Maxwell would lead his first battle as leader of the Inquisition.

It did put some things into perspective. _The Inquisition cannot cast me aside_, he assured himself. _They would discredit the entire organization if they did that._

_But if what happened with Dale were revealed, they would look at me differently. _Maxwell had never had many people in his life. To have his daily meetings without Josephine’s kind smile and Cullen’s occasional flashes of dry wit made his heart ache. Maker, he considered Cassandra and Vivienne friends. What would he do if they turned away from him?

And what did people know? Had Ser Barris spoken to Dale? Had Denam? Maxwell’s mind brimmed over with questions. It was time for some answers.

There weren’t many people in the main hall. Behind him, the golden flames of his Andraste-themed throne gleamed in the light streaming in from the stained-glass windows. Josephine had ordered grand incense holders for the main hall, but they hadn’t arrived yet.

Varric was chatting with Gatsi, the mason, as Maxwell walked past. The storyteller nodded to Maxwell with a friendly smile, which was kind of him, considering Maxwell hadn’t taken his side when he revealed that he’d hidden Hawke from the Inquisition. Maxwell sympathized with Varric’s desire to protect his friend, but now was the time for everyone to work together, not keep secrets.

Maxwell nodded in reply. Most days, just seeing Varric brightened his spirits. He was a bit infatuated with the dwarf. He wasn’t quite sure whether he wanted to be Varric—silver-tongued, at ease with everyone—or kiss him. A bit of both, perhaps.

Maxwell fought the urge to run up to Madame Vivienne’s room and blurt out everything that had happened since Rion had asked to see him. Madame Vivienne would hardly appreciate such an outburst. She was always telling him to appear strong and resolute, to be appropriate to his station. _She might look a lot like my mother, but she certainly isn’t. I can’t hide behind her robes. I’m 20, for the Maker’s sake. I can solve my own issues._

The icy mountain wind still stole Maxwell’s breath each time he walked out into it. The sun was up in a cloudless sky, but it couldn’t banish the cold. The courtyard was busy, as always. There was the Iron Bull and his Chargers heading out the training grounds with wooden swords, shields, and practice arrows. Cassandra was working at her training dummy. He wondered how many she’d destroyed this morning.

He walked down the long staircase to Skyhold’s dungeon, which felt too full of shadows for his liking. Of course, the prison was guarded. Why wouldn’t it be? Yet Maxwell was still startled to see someone at the door.

The guard, a middle-aged woman with grey streaks in her medium-brown hair, bowed as he approached. “Inquisitor. It’s quiet in there, as usual.”

“Thank you.” There was a window into the prison. Would she hear him speaking to Dale? Perhaps if he kept his voice down, she might hear only the waterfall beyond the prison.

_I could return tomorrow._ He could put off visiting Dale until he returned from Adamant. _Assuming I return, that is. My forces are fighting the Grey Wardens, warriors of legend, and Corypheus’s demons. It will be the hardest battle I’ve ever seen._

_All the more reason to get some questions answered so I can focus on it._

His stomach was twisted into knots. _For I walk only where you would bid me, and speak only the words you have placed in my throat. Andraste have mercy on us both. _He stepped into the prison. It reminded him of stepping through the waist-high snow after Haven fell. He fought for each step as he approached Dale’s cell.

Dale looked older, his pockmarked skin pale and purple circles beneath his eyes. His left eyelid drooped as it always had; an accident of birth, he’d claimed. Maxwell could only estimate his age—anywhere from 40 to 50. He’d never been traditionally handsome. After working for a year to secure the night shift for himself and his partner, Dale had been able to slip into Maxwell’s chambers. By then, age 14, Maxwell had been waiting eagerly for the sound of his key on the lock.

Dale had joked as he removed his helmet. “Now, I’m not exactly some young stud. I’ll understand if you want to send me away.”

“I could never send you away,” Maxwell had replied, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt. So Dale wasn’t a handsome prince. What did that matter? Maxwell had loved him without ever seeing his face, and he’d felt their love was all the more powerful for not being aided by physical appearance. Maxwell was fat, shy, and always had his nose in a book. Dale was a pig farmer’s son, grizzled and weathered. And somehow, Andraste had brought them together.

When Maxwell approached his cell, Dale’s eyes widened. He’d been sitting on his cot; now, he scrambled to his feet so he could bow. “Your—Your Worship.”

Maxwell glanced at the guarded prison door, then at the second door deeper in the prison that led to the waterfall. Dale was closer to the waterfall than the entry door. If they spoke quietly, the guard wouldn’t hear them. _Hopefully. _

But former Knight-Captain Denam lay on his bed in the cell opposite Dale. Unsurprisingly, he seemed quite interested in the Inquisitor and the new templar prisoner. Maxwell couldn’t just say anything he wanted.

“It’s you,” Maxwell started. “I just…I had to see, I suppose.”

“Your Worship—”

He was talking too loudly. “Quiet.” Maxwell gestured him closer to the bars with a sharp jerk of his head.

Dale hesitated before stepping forward.

Maxwell’s heart beat faster. “The Knight-Commander…did he speak with you?”

“Yeah. I told him the obvious. That I lied, that I stole some stiff’s armour and I said I was from a Circle with no survivors. But that’s all I told him.” He wet his lips nervously. “Your Worship, I never wanted you to know I existed.” The words gushed out of him. “I never told no one I knew you. I wanted to serve, that’s all. You let the Order be allies, even after all we’d done.”

Only when Maxwell moved his mouth to speak did he realize how tightly he was clenching his jaw. “You keep saying ‘us.’ But you’re not a templar. Not anymore.”

“I had to try to be one. Any templar would do the same if they had the chance. Lyrium hooks sink deep, and they don’t bloody well come out, even after years. ‘Sides, I could do more good in the world in that armour than I could shivering on a street corner. That’s all I wanted. To do good. To make up for…some of what happened.”

“What happened.” The words caught in his throat. Finally, he spat out, “What _happened_, Dale? You mean ‘what I did.’”

Dale winced and looked down at his feet. “Of course, Inquisitor. That’s what I meant. It’s been an evening and a morning without lyrium and already my head’s whirling.” He cleared his throat. “I’m damned sorry about calling you a blood mage. I got scared and I got stupid. So damned sorry.”

Just mentioning that night made Maxwell drop his gaze to maintain his composure. He still had nightmares about that moment: half-naked in bed with Dale, pleasure turning to bewilderment and terror as his lock clicked and the door swung open.

Three templars had stormed in. They’d wasted no time in grabbing him and Dale and binding their hands. They’d known, hadn’t they? Or they’d been prepared for something.

“Dale,” he’d hissed—no, whimpered. Maxwell kept trying to rewrite his memories so that he came off stronger and more confident. He’d been frigid with fear, his extremities so cold they hurt.

“Blood mage!” Dale had shouted. “Trevelyan’s a blood mage!”

In the heat of the moment, Maxwell hadn’t understood what the accusation meant. It had taken him hours to truly understand he wouldn’t be leaving his cell.

In the present, Dale continued. “I recanted right after.”

Maxwell recoiled, blurting out “You recanted?” far too loudly.

“Of course.” Dale seemed surprised at Maxwell’s surprise. “I cared for you, Maxwell.”

_He remembered._ Bizarrely, a flame of gratitude flickered to life in Maxwell’s chest. It had taken Dale almost a year to stop calling him Max, the name his father called him.

Dale leaned closer. “It all ended ugly—” his voice lowered to a whisper, forcing Maxwell to lean in to hear him “—and sometimes the ending spoils all what comes before. But we had some good times, right? You begged me to come to your chambers more often, I recall. And I did everything you asked.”

That was all true. Maxwell had begged, he had been eager, and he had wanted Dale. “Well…yes, but—”

“If you hadn’t wanted me, you would’ve told someone. You could’ve put a stop to it. But you didn’t.” He grimaced, his brow lowering. “And when the time came to pay, the low-born paid and the noble didn’t. You didn’t sleep in the woods, did you? You weren’t begging for scraps to eat. You lived safe and warm.”

“After a blood magic investigation, Dale!” Maxwell’s voice sounded very close to a whine.

“Which was over quick, wasn’t it?!” Dale snapped. A moment later, panic tightened the flesh around Dale’s eyes. He licked at his lips as he ran a hand through his blonde hair. It was thinner at the crown than it had been four years ago. “Shit,” he whispered, “I’m sorry, Maxwell. It’s the cursed lyrium. Like knives in my veins. But I had the best of intentions, joining the Inquisition with the other templars. All I wanted was to serve.”

Maxwell’s head was whirling. His vision had narrowed to the face in front of him; he could see little else besides Dale. A ringing in his ears sounded over the roar of the waterfall. He realized when he tried to calm his breathing that he was panting for air.

_I had questions._

He snapped, “Knight-Commander Stevens said you abused mages. Mages, plural. How many others? And, Maker, how _young_ were they? I was 13 when—”

“As if I knew that! You were tall for your age. I never bloody touched kids. I never touched _anyone _else.”

Maxwell was too stunned to speak. _I couldn’t have heard that right. _His mind kept repeating Dale’s words, as if repetition would reveal some hidden meaning.

“Think, Maxwell. Of course, the templars _said_ that. They couldn’t tell people what it was, that we loved each other, could they? You, a noble’s son, with some pig farmer’s get? They had to slap on some fake charges to make it seem worse, so all you Trevelyans in the priesthood wouldn’t call the Seekers in.”

Maxwell wished he had some proof to refute him. But what Dale said was possible—not likely, but possible.

_But what about Amina? _

The world righted itself as the realization sank in: _He forgot about Amina—or he forgot that I was friends with her._ “And Amina?”

A wrinkle appeared between his brows. “Who?”

“The Tranquil, Dale.”

He shrugged, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Ah, I might have teased her a little, Pinched her bottom a bit. Nothing she hadn’t had before. Tame, compared to the way some templars talked about her. Why? She go around spreading stories?”

For just a heartbeat, Maxwell questioned his own memory and Amina’s motivations. She could have lied. It was possible….

_No._ He sucked in air—breathing hurt, his lungs were squeezed tight. _Dale’s the liar. He’s lying to me, and I’m_ letting_ him. I always let him talk too much. I let him get away with everything—it was my fault that he hurt my friend—_

Ice snapped and cracked along the prison’s bars. Dale jerked back, calling for help. Maxwell’s mana had always turned to ice before all other elements. When Maxwell was seven, a family picnic on Fairbrook’s grounds had turned disastrous when giant spiders had surrounded the Trevelyans. As his parents and older siblings had grabbed their hunting bows, a panicked Maxwell had loosed a frost blast from his clenched fists.

Ice stretched between the bars, blocking Dale from his sight. “Stop lying!” Maxwell screamed. “Just stop it!”

The whispers started again.

Turn the cold inside you outward.

The liar should burn.

You can be the hero the people need: strong, fit, handsome. The kind from the stories, if that is your desire…

The ice wall had grown to the top of the cell. _My first ice wall._ Maxwell stared at it, wavering on his feet. There was movement from the prison door, and a voice, calling to him, calling him Inquisitor.

He staggered to the door to the waterfall, wrenched it open, and slammed it shut. His hands were shaking. Without looking behind him, he blasted the door with ice so no one would follow.

He stumbled to the edge of the waterfall and vomited. Close to the edge of the falls, he lay on his back. If he rolled even slightly to his right, he’d fall into the spray and the mist.

_Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. I am Maxwell Trevelyan, of the Ostwick Circle of Magi, and I have completed my Harrowing. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children._ _I am Maxwell Trevelyan, of the Ostwick Circle of Magi, and I have completed my Harrowing._

No one will hurt you again. That was Desire, probably. No one will lay a hand on you if you do not wish it. They will not even look your way.

You will not hurt. No one will hurt you. Your rage will devour cities. Let them feel the darkness of your cell, the ache of your loneliness. Let them fear you.

“I…am Maxwell Trevelyan of Ostwick Circle. I…I passed my…. I’m Maxwell Trevelyan—”

Hands were on him, dragging him back from the edge with an iron grip. He was wearing cloth, not armour, so they dug disgustingly into his doughy flesh. Bellowing, he lashed out and reached his for mana, but he had none.

“Inquisitor.”

Maxwell flinched, shame dousing his temper as quickly as it had flared. Maker, no. Not Cassandra. He opened his eyes to see her sharp face creased with worry. He tried to get to his feet, but his body didn’t obey him.

She helped him stand. The voices were gone. He sagged against her, breathing heavily.

“I….” No words came to him. How could he even begin to explain this?

“I’m here for you, my friend.”

He stared at his feet. She wouldn’t call him friend if she knew about him and….

“Dale. Cadogan. The prisoner. My ice wall. Did I…hurt him?”

“Your ice wall was tall but not thick. You didn’t hurt him.”

“Was?”

“I Dispelled it.”

“Oh.” Obviously. There was no ice on the door that led to the waterfall.

They re-entered the prison. Maxwell stared straight ahead, ignoring the cells on either side. He mind flashed to memories of the Envy demon he’d fought at Therinfall Redoubt, and all the cells in the visions the demon had shown him.

Denam spoke as he passed. “Guess a wall of ice is one way to end a lover’s quarrel, Inquisitor.”

Maxwell flinched, clenching his fists in impotent anger.

Cassandra slammed her hand against the bars of Denam’s cage, setting the iron ringing. “You shut your filthy mouth! If you dare speak to the Inquisitor again, you’ll face the headsman’s axe.”

Denam smiled, eyes bright and cold. “You—” he looked at Maxwell “—raised the flag of Andraste highest in Therinfall.”

“Guard!” Cassandra snapped.

“Even knowing how you broke Her Chant—” Denam continued more loudly, heedless of the guard re-entering the prison.

Cassandra was trying to protect him, but that was going too far. Besides, the way Denam was acting, he was eager for a headsman’s axe. “Cassandra, I—I won’t kill anyone for speaking,” he mumbled. “And I won’t turn around and execute a prisoner I sentenced to imprisonment. Let’s go. Please.”

Cassandra met his gaze. “Very well, Inquisitor.” Still breathing deeply, she glowered at Denam.

The guard escorted them out of the prison. Maxwell glanced at her. How much had she heard? She didn’t look his way, and he read little on her professionally blank expression.

“I apologize,” he said awkwardly. “I lost my temper. Thank you for your quick thinking, guardswoman.”

“It’s nothing, Your Worship.”

He couldn’t read her. Blast it, what had she heard? And how could he be sure she wouldn’t say anything? Any wit he’d ever had had deserted him. Varric would have known what to do. He was clever with people.

_Though I suppose secrecy doesn’t matter so much,_ he realized. _Cassandra knows. Not the whole story, but she knows enough._

Maker, he was going to be sick again.

“It’s nothing,” the guardswoman repeated quietly. “Every shift’s boring, down here. The prisoners don’t talk at all.”

It took Maxwell a few moments to understand her meaning. “Thank you,” he muttered, then left quickly.

The cold mountain wind of Skyhold was a good excuse to wipe tears from his eyes. Cassandra came up beside him. He couldn’t look at her.

This courtyard was his. This castle his, as well. All given to him based on the lie he’d told his advisors and his inner circle: that he was a faithful mage who wanted to bring order in Andraste’s name.

“Shall we go to the chapel, Inquisitor?” There was a note of hesitation in her voice. Was she questioning why she was still at his side, after all she’d heard?

“The chapel?” he repeated. Prayer wouldn’t help—after the templars’ investigation, he’d sat in his pew for years and felt nothing—but he couldn’t think of any place else to go. “All right.”


	3. But my faith sustains me

They started on the Canticle of Trials. They both knew the words without having to read them. For a while, robes swished and quiet footsteps padded behind them. At one point, there was the slight click of objects being set down or moved. Soon, even that background noise disappeared. The only sound was their voices. He envied Cassandra her voice: so sure, so strong.

“I have faced armies with You as my shield, and though I bear scars beyond counting, nothing can break me except Your absence. When I have lost all else, when my eyes fail me and the taste of blood fills my mouth, then in the pounding of my heart I hear the glory of creation. You have grieved as I have. You, who made worlds out of nothing. We are alike in sorrow, sculptor and clay, comforting each other in our art.”

Maxwell prayed for guidance, for succor, for courage—or, if not those, then at least the numbness that had marked his years after the blood magic investigation.

They’d been wasted years. He’d quit his job at the library, been inattentive at his studies, and barely passed his Harrowing. When Ostwick’s Circle fell, he’d provided directions to Fairbrook Hall, but others had kept them safe on the journey there. Only his noble name had let him and his fellow Loyalists survive the mage-templar war, not his actions.

But at least he hadn’t been in pain.

From Trials to Benedictions. His knees were hurting, but he kept praying. Cassandra didn’t flinch or complain.

“Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker's will is written.”

Eventually, his throat started hurting. A peculiar smell kept seeping into his consciousness: jasmine, he realized.

He opened his eyes. There was a tray of buns, a teapot, and a ceramic bowl of jasmine tea leaves slightly behind him. It was his favourite tea.

“I believe Madame Vivienne’s servant set that here for you,” Cassandra said.

“Did she? I must remember to thank her.” He put the loose tea into the satchel, slipped it into the pot, then summoned flame to heat the teapot. His mana answered surprisingly quickly, considering he’d been drained of it not long ago. “Er, you don’t happen to know how long we’ve been here, do you?”

“A few hours.”

Maxwell recoiled. “Hours?” He banished his flame and set the teapot down. “I missed my training with Commander Helaine.” Every day from 10 to noon, with a healthy lunch immediately after.

“I sent a messenger to cancel.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Still, his askew schedule niggled at him.

After a moment’s thought, he held the teapot up and summoned mana again to heat it. He nudged the plate of buns over to Cassandra with his knee.

“Thank you.” But she didn’t eat any.

To the statue of Andraste, he confessed, “Denam wasn’t wrong. I did love Cadogan, once. I was one of the mages he…fraternized with.” Maker, his love had been so strong. Would he ever feel its like again? “But he called me a blood mage when we were discovered.”

“Inquisitor, I’m sorry—”

“I know. Knight-Commander Stevens was, too.” He sighed wearily. “Everyone was sorry.”

“The Seekers were meant to prevent abuse of mages.” Her voice was tight, almost too controlled. “We should not have failed so badly.”

He wondered how the guilt and grief didn’t crush her. But, then, she was much more acquainted with pain than he. She’d lost so many people: her parents, her brother, Divine Justinia, her protégé in the Seekers…. And she still stood and tried to find the right path between order and freedom.

“It wasn’t abuse. He didn’t hurt me.” The flame beneath the teapot guttered as shame washed over him. He forced himself to focus, so his mana would flow steadily. _I begged him, sometimes. I wept when he wasn’t near. I wanted him so much._

“He was a templar, and you were a mage under his care. There’s too much of an imbalance of power for your relationship to be anything other than abuse.”

One of their agents, Enchanter Ellendra from the Hinterlands, was a mage who’d loved a templar. She would probably argue with that definition of abuse. “He didn’t hurt me. But he hurt others. My friend, Amina, Ostwick’s Head Librarian and a Tranquil.”

His gaze fell to the flame in his hand. “There should be no more Tranquil. We can reverse the rite, and we should.”

“If there were some way to ensure that those returned would not be vulnerable to possession, I would agree wholeheartedly.”

“We’ll find a way.” He couldn’t help but feel like a hopeless idealist. What if there wasn’t one? The Chantry and Theodosian society taught such fear of magic. Could any Tranquil who returned to themselves not fear their powers or their risk of possession? Wouldn’t that fear create the very thing they tried to prevent?

_Maybe…if the templars were there to suppress demonic voices…if the templars could even be trained not to attack a newly non-Tranquil mage on sight…. _

_Maker, to think so poorly of my allies. Did I beg the templars to stay, like I begged Dale? Am I just a dog returning to its master no matter how they beat me?_

His flame vanished, and he set the teapot down.

“You’re dismissed, Cassandra.”

“No.”

He looked at her for the first time in hours. She stared back at him, unyielding. “You defy your Inquisitor?”

“I will not see a repeat of when I found you earlier today, fighting demons on your own.”

“Void take you,” he hissed, but he didn’t have the strength to turn her away.

After he choked down a few of the buns, they left the chapel. Mother Giselle was in the garden near the statue of Andraste. Maxwell often spoke with her while he was in Skyhold, and he approached her now. Cassandra stood a respectful distance away, letting him converse with Mother Giselle privately.

“I apologize for using the chapel for so long, Mother.”

She smiled at him serenely. “Do not apologize for where your heart led you in faith, Inquisitor. I hope you found what you sought.”

He grimaced, embarrassed at the shallowness of his faith. “I’m not sure I did.”

“I am saddened to hear that, Inquisitor. If I may, what were you seeking?”

“Peace. Guidance. A vision. Something. Today has been…trying. I know my faith should be stronger than my feelings, but…I hoped I would feel Her presence.”

“We do not always feel Her comfort when we would wish it. I have gone years, at times, without feeling Her hand.”

“Years? That’s terrible!”

“The world is loud, and often drowns out Her quiet voice. When you do not hear Her, you must use your mind to act as you believe She would wish you to act.”

He’d thought he had been. What if he’d been just a misguided zealot? “I’ll try, Mother.”

Mother Giselle looked at him with eyes that were too knowing for his liking. “Whatever storms you face, remember that storms are temporary, not eternal. Without darkened skies, how would we know that peace that comes with the light?”

He’d heard words like that before, and it disappointed him to hear them from Mother Giselle. After the blood magic investigation, he’d felt Mother Reardon of Ostwick Circle often targeted him in her Sunday sermons. He’d sit in his pew, frozen, staring blankly ahead while she spoke of how the dawn came after the darkest night. She’d almost seemed gleeful that something terrible had happened in her small, usually sedate Circle. Now, her flock could prove they were all righteous warriors for Andraste.

A few times, Mother Reardon had spoken to Maxwell privately. At first, she’d asked him to repent his inappropriate feelings for a templar. Maxwell, heartsick and grieving Dale’s loss, hadn’t been able to.

“But I love him, Mother,” he’d told her. “Andraste brought us together.”

“That was not Andrate but your sinful flesh. It will lie to you, child, as surely as any demon.”

After these unsuccessful attempts, she’d tried to lure him back to faith with the promise of Andraste’s peace—but by then, Maxwell had grown so numb that he’d already felt at peace. Maxwell had thanked her, nodded, and never darkened her chapel door since that conversation.

As far as Maxwell knew, she’d never spoken to Amina. The faith and healing of a Tranquil hadn’t been her concern.

Maxwell nodded politely to Mother Giselle when all he wanted to do was shrug and turn away. _She’s trying. If she’s giving general advice, it’s because I haven’t explained what truly troubles me. _Nor would he ever, Maker willing. “Thank you, Mother. Andraste watch over you.”

“And you as well.”

He rejoined Cassandra. A breeze brought the smell of roses from somewhere in the garden, which made his skin crawl. He stepped into the main hall.

Varric was sitting at his desk by the fire, writing a letter. He looked up when Maxwell entered. “You were in the chapel a while, Inquisitor. Don’t suppose Andraste sent you a vision of us winning at Adamant?” Even when he spoke lightly, his tone never seemed to cross into smarminess.

“No.” Perhaps he should have answered Varric’s tone in kind, but he didn’t have it in him.

“Well, that’s a pity.” Looking past Maxwell, Varric nodded stiffly to Cassandra, who didn’t reply. Would that relationship ever be the same?

His feet turned to Vivienne’s room. _I’m not going to her because she reminds me of my mother. I’m the Inquisitor speaking with an esteemed ally. She’s an experienced mage, and she’s seen much more of the world than Fairbrook Hall and one Circle. _

Madame Vivienne was reclining on her chaise longue reading a letter. She set her letter down as Maxwell mounted the stairs. “I always have time for you, darling.”

Maxwell laced his hands behind his back so they wouldn’t shake. “Thank you for lunch, Madame Vivienne. May Cassandra and I consult with you in private?”

She smoothly said, “Of course.” He could believe she was prepared for any eventuality. No one could ever touch or hurt her.

Vivienne’s private chambers were as elegant and luxurious as he’d expected: crushed velvet upholstery, mahogany desks and chairs, a porcelain tea set, and everything that could be plated in gold was plated in gold. It was a bit much for his tastes.

Madame Vivienne sat in a plush armchair, and invited him to sit. “Now, what do you wish to speak to me about, Inquisitor?”

He sat with a heavy sigh. “Do you think I did the right thing, allying with the templars?”

“I do. A magical threat is best faced by an organization devoted to defeating magical threats. To ally with the templars showed that you wish to look beyond the Order’s sins to the safety and stability they bring mages.”

He crossed his arms over his stomach. “I’ve spent most of my life proving what a good mage I am.” His tone was much bitterer than he’d meant it to be. “Should I have been so eager to bow to them?” ‘_Bow and more,’ Ewen said._

“You are bowing to no one, Inquisitor. You accepted them as allies and equals. In any case, the deed is done.” She leaned in slightly. “What brought you to doubt yourself, my dear? Was it your conversation with the Champion?”

Maxwell was the polar opposite of Garrett Hawke, who still loved the abomination that had blown up Kirkwall’s Chantry—and would have willingly helped him, if a line of dialogue from Varric’s _Tales of the Champion_ was true. “No. We spoke mostly of the coming battle. That’s not what concerns me.”

Maxwell was collected enough to casually remark, “We have a new prisoner in the dungeons.” Perhaps his even tone wouldn’t have fooled the Iron Bull, and perhaps it didn’t fool Vivienne, but he felt momentarily pleased with himself.

“So I’ve heard. They're a templar, I believe?”

“Yes. I know him—well, know_ of_ him.” He glanced at Cassandra, who showed no reaction to his characterization of events, before turning his attention back to Vivienne. “He was cast out of Ostwick Circle a few years ago for fraternizing with mages and abusing a Tranquil.” He had to swallow against the lump forming in his throat.

“Oh, Inquisitor,” she said softly. “How dreadful.” Her gentle gaze took the sting out of her next words: “Did you sleep at all last night?”

Unable to speak, he shook his head.

“I’ll make you a tonic to ensure a proper night’s sleep.” She rose, went to her writing desk, and wrote another line on what seemed a very long to-do list.

Fat, useless, friendless little boy. Always burdening other people. His pathetic weeping had forced his father, a bann with duties beyond counting, to stay in the Circle for weeks to coddle him. Senior Enchanter Lydia had wasted countless hours trying to stop him from drifting through his days. And here was Madame Vivienne, First Enchanter to the Imperial Court, making him a tonic so he could sleep through the night.

“Please don’t trouble yourself, my lady.”

“Why, it’s no trouble at all, darling. I’ve always enjoyed potions; I consider brewing them a pleasant diversion.”

He was so unworthy of her kindness. Tears welled up in his eyes. Stupid boy. Madame Vivienne looked on him with such compassion a sob wrenched out of him. She would hate him if she knew what he’d done.

“I’m very proud of you, my dear,” she said.

He shook his head. She shouldn’t be.

“You hid your suffering from your troops before a major battle, where they will look to you for strength. You surrounded yourself with people who care for you. And—” her gaze flickered to Cassandra “—I suspect demons have not made these hours pass easily.”

“Today, I heard them for the first time since Haven fell.” Before she could speak, he quickly said, “I know the exercises. I’ve been saying them all day. I will not fall to demons, Madame Vivienne. But the Tranquil Cadogan hurt, she was my friend!

“I know how bad a Circle can be—and I didn’t even suffer the worst of it!—but I still went to the templars. I thought Andraste led me to them, but it was fear. That’s what they’ll say of me. That’s probably what they say of me now! How scared—scared and stupid—” He wiped at streaming eyes and wet cheeks.

“Anyone who would say that betrays their own ignorance.” There was the faint tread of her footsteps and swish of her robes as she approached him. She offered him a handkerchief, which he blew into before she continued.

“Inquisitor, you have so much more power than you can see right now. You are a humble, faithful young man, not used to thinking in terms of what you are owed. Allow me to explain the situation as I see it.

“You saved the templars from themselves. You defeated the rot at their core and showed them mercy. You appointed their Knight-Commander, darling! What you need to do is make your wishes known on how the Templar Order should be reformed. You have but to speak, and a thousand ears will listen."

"I...I wouldn't even know where to start." He blew into Vivienne's handkerchief. He kept his gaze on his hands as he fought for control. Maker, what must she think of him?

“I know scholars at the University of Orlais who are experts in change in large organizations. I can have them brought in to teach you in the months to come. Their instruction will be rather boring, I’m afraid. The changes required won’t find their way into the songs or the history books. But they will allow a new Order to flourish. We can have mages governing themselves and safe from mobs, aided by templars who guard against demonic influence and save us from the weakest among us.”

“I have some thoughts," Maxwell said uncertainly, glancing up at her. At Vivienne's encouraging nod, he continued. "We should not create more Tranquil. I don’t know how we stop weak mages from falling to demonic influence, but there has to be another way. Perhaps we should let them fall? It’s a tragedy, but is it any more a tragedy than having magic and emotions stripped from you? And we should reverse the Tranquil that have already been made.”

He sniffled, and wiped his nose, but the worst of his tears had stopped. _For now._ “And everyone should be allowed to see their families. My family’s wealth meant my father could visit me, but why should that matter? If a mage who is a peasant’s child has proven they can avoid demonic temptation, why shouldn’t they see their families? They could spend a week or a month with them, perhaps with templars to keep them safe from themselves and others. Then they’ll have connections and roots, and people will see mages in the world, as normal as they are.”

Maxwell considered what he’d just said. “That’s a rather Rivaini notion, now that I think about it. I’m hardly advocating for spirit possession. But they have some good ideas.” He frowned, remembering how the Chantry had ordered the Circle at Dairsmuid slaughtered. “And we all know how those ideas ended. The templars are an arm of the Chantry. Why would they listen to me?”

“You have influence with the Chantry, too, my dear. Mother Giselle stands beside you, and the other clerics are learning to respect you. I foresee a great deal more influence should we defeat Corypheus.”

“Yes, of course. This is all a theoretical discussion until that day.” If there were no Rites of Annulment, there would be no slaughter of entire Circles. Could he ask for that? Dare he? The Hero of Ferelden, a dwarf from Orzamar’s lowest caste, had seen the fall of Kinloch Hold and hadn’t called for the Rite. Even an outsider could see it wasn’t always needed. _Or perhaps it takes an outsider to see that it wasn’t needed._

“We have set our best strategic minds to the coming battle, my dear. All we can do is the best with what we have. No matter the battle’s outcome, the people of Thedas will see the Inquisition acting where no others did.”

She had the proper, appropriate words for everything. He saw the beginning of a plan for the future. A step he could take. A way he could help his people. It would not be a quick fix, but it would be a start.

“Thank you, Madame Vivienne,” he murmured. Words weren’t enough to convey the depths of his gratitude. Was there something he could get or do for her? He’d found most of the books she sought, but there had to be something more he could do.

“You’re welcome, Inquisitor.” She began to reach for his shoulder, stopping when he flinched back.

“I don’t like being touched,” Maxwell said. He thought that dislike had come before Dale, though he wasn’t entirely sure. Sometimes, the timeline of his own wishes and desires grew confused. Had he even preferred men before Dale? Or was that something Dale had placed in him?

“Of course, Inquisitor. I apologize for overstepping. You do know you can come to me anytime, don’t you?”

He nodded, too ashamed of his outburst to speak. He cast about for something to say, but could only hand her back her handkerchief and mutter, “Thank you for your time.”

The day outside was bright and beautiful. It was hard to appreciate at the moment, but Maxwell could imagine himself enjoying the day later on. Not every minute of his time at Skyhold was structured—he gave himself a break at five to pursue his own projects before dinner. He might stroll along the ramparts or outside of Skyhold. He was not a young man in a cell anymore. He was free.

Free, unlike most mages. Vivienne’s words seemed harder to believe with each step he took away from her chambers. Only the arrogant would think that the Chantry and the Templar Order should bend themselves to his will.

"What did you think of Madame Vivienne's speech?" Maxwell asked Cassandra.

Cassandra smiled wryly. “I think better you than me listening to the lectures of Orlesian scholars. Then again, that is why I do not lead the Inquisition, and you do. Since you missed your training session, would you care to train with me in your usual place?”

If anyone understood the power of a training session to work through one’s issues, it was Cassandra. “I’d like that very much. But first, I’d like to set some research aside about Chantry reformers.”

He went into the rotunda, with Cassandra behind him. Both Solas and Dorian were there. Dorian was lounging against the wall, watching Solas paint a fresco, holding a book insouciantly. Maxwell had never seen Solas work, and paused to watch him paint in broad, even strokes, perfectly covering over his charcoal lines. He was so cool and confident—he never seemed to make a mistake.

Maxwell went up to the library and picked out some books: Sister Meliflua’s _Chantry Histories: Reform and Revolution_, Brother Cyril’s _Famous Speeches from the Steel Age to the Blessed Age _and _A Treatise of the Formation of the Chantry and Its Holy Doctrine_ by multiple authors. The last was a rather in-depth text. He doubted he’d get much done before marching to Adamant. Seeing the librarian was absent, he left a note of the books he’d taken.

“You organized the library yourself, did you not?” Cassandra asked.

“Of course. I was a junior librarian, back in the Circle.” A wave of sadness washed over him. He cleared his throat. “For a time.” He wished now he’d kept his post after the blood magic investigation and Dale’s banishment. It would have given structure to his days. He’d had many good memories in that library.

When Maxwell and Cassandra returned to the main floor, Solas had stepped off his scaffolding and was eating some buttered bread.

“What titles do you have there, Inquisitor?” Dorian asked.

Maxwell didn’t feel like explaining himself to Dorian, but hiding the titles might make him more curious. “Some books on Chantry reformers.”

He looked between the two men. _I imagine they have much different views on my choices than Madame Vivienne._ He glanced over the titles in his hands again. Immediately, he’d run to books on the Chantry. Here were two mages who’d never seen the inside of a southern Circle. _A leader should not only hear those voices that agree with him._

“I am trying to see a way forward for mage and templar,” he admitted to them. “I thought bringing the templars to aid us was the right thing to do, but I’ve had doubts of late. I dislike thinking my actions will harm my people.”

Solas and Dorian glanced at one another. Then Solas said, “With all due respect, Inquisitor, you will have to endure your discomfort. You legitimized the authority of an organization based on the fear of magic. You are an intelligent man. You could not have been insensible to what that would mean to Thedas, should we survive Corypheus.”

What could he say that he hadn’t told them before? The templars were trained to defeat magical threats. That the rebel mages might have been in worse disarray, for all he knew. _Or perhaps it was my prejudice against Ewen that kept me from meeting them in Redcliffe. _He’d never consciously thought of Ewen when he debated his choice between supporting the mages and supporting the templars. _Perhaps that was a problem. Without looking at my past, I couldn’t see my blind spots and where they led me._

“But I might have some influence,” Maxwell protested, “considering all I did for the templars.”

“The influence of a new, upstart organization will be nothing compared to the Chantry’s influence over them,” Solas said. “Which was your thought as well, I believe, if your book choices are any indication. Look through those books, Inquisitor, and count how many of those reforms were adopted. Then ask yourself why, and whether they actually threatened the established order in any meaningful way. I’d be interested to hear your findings. Not surprised, I’m sure. But interested.”

“Solas,” Dorian widened his eyes dramatically, “are you asking the Inquisitor for a report as if he were a schoolboy?”

The word ‘boy’ irritated Maxwell enough to snap, “Would you like a hat with bells on it to aid with your japes, Dorian?”

“Are they golden bells? Is it a silk hat? I must know the details, Inquisitor!”

Maxwell rolled his eyes.

“Ooo—do I get to design the hat?”

Maxwell huffed. “Nevermind.” He looked to Solas. “Thank you for your counsel, Solas.” A thought occurred to him; after a few moments of mulling it over, he said, “You are everything my Circle says should be impossible: An apostate who doesn’t use blood magic and has avoided demonic temptation. If you have any thoughts about the role of mages in our world, I would be honoured to hear them.”

That surprised the elf, who took a moment of his own before replying. “Thank you, Inquisitor. That you attempt to see beyond the preconceptions hammered into you since birth does you credit.” Solas’s expression was wary. _As well he should be; I’ve hardly tried to understand him much. I’ll prove to him that I can be better._

“Not interested in hearing my point of view on the southern Circles, Inquisitor?” Dorian asked. “I’m hurt.”

Maxwell took a moment to think. “That was rude of me, wasn’t it? I apologize, Dorian. Of course, you’re welcome to share your thoughts as well.” The more points of view he heard, the stronger his own would grow, hopefully.

“Don’t worry, I won’t start advocating blood magic and breaching the Golden City.” The Tevinter paused. “May I ask you a question, Inquisitor? It’s not a joke, this time. I know how much you hate humour—or mine, at least.”

Dorian was, as usual, annoyingly correct. The Tevinter could talk circles around Maxwell, and it didn’t help that Maxwell was horribly jealous of Dorian’s good looks. But Maxwell could manage politeness around him, and he exercised that now. “Ask your question, Dorian.”

“Would you lock yourself back up in your cage when the Circles are restored? I imagine you won’t have to, being the Herald of Andraste and all that. But if you weren’t the Herald, would you return after having had so much freedom?”

Maxwell barely had to think. “Of course I would. My Circle is my home.”

His lack of hesitation made him uneasy. When he’d thought of his home before, he’d remembered the books, the food, the classes, the knowledge available to anyone who wished to seek it. He’d locked away the memories of how his home hadn’t been safe for everyone. Now, they stood out much clearer.

_I’ll make my home safe_, he vowed. _Somehow._

He got the sense that he hadn’t impressed Dorian. “Well, no one can accuse you of being a hypocrite, at least.”

Maxwell and Cassandra left the rotunda. He started toward his room, then glanced back at her. “I am allowed to go to my room alone, aren’t I?”

Cassandra hesitated.

“I’m not going to…to harm myself, Cassandra. If we’re to train together, I need to change into my training clothes.”

That seemed to decide her. “Of course. I’ll be waiting outside your door should you need anything.”

He walked up the stairs alone and got changed. Though she was absent, her presence lingered, a protective force against the whispers of demons and his own shame. The thought made him smile.

Until he remembered that it was her job to keep him safe. Without him, no one could seal the rifts or the Breach. What must she really think of him?

* * *

Maxwell was having an off day. That shouldn’t have surprised him, all things considered, but it irritated him nonetheless. He was going to face the Grey Wardens as a Knight Enchanter. He needed to be at least competent with the blade.

But here he was, sprawled on the basement stone. Maxwell couldn’t show his troops how bad he was at swordplay, so he and Commander Helaine trained privately. Cassandra had handily knocked his wooden sword out of his hand for the twentieth time.

“Let’s take a break,” Cassandra said. She helped him up. Maxwell panted heavily, wiping sweat from his brow and neck. They drank from a pitcher of water on a side table.

_Dale said he’d never touched anyone else. I know about Amina, and there likely were others. Is there any way to learn the truth?_ He shook his head as if to dislodge the thought. He wished he’d never gone to see the prisoner.

“You’re coming along well,” Cassandra said.

Maxwell snorted. “I don’t think I even landed a blow on you.”

“I have trained for decades to achieve this mastery. You are leagues beyond where you started, especially for a mage. You were not raised a warrior. I saw that once I freed you from your chains at Haven.” Cassandra gave a small, weary smile. “I thought it very odd that someone would send you to assassinate the Divine.”

Maxwell couldn’t help but smile back. They had come quite far since their first meeting, hadn’t they? “The first time I ever attacked another person beyond a training session was when a fight broke out in Ostwick’s Circle. It was almost two years ago, now.” He took a long sip of water before adding, “My mentor, Lydia, died in the fighting.”

“I’m so sorry. What was she like?”

“Rather like Mother Giselle: a patient, learned woman.” He frowned slightly. “Rather, that was the woman I saw when I was younger. I feel I’ve grown so much in the years since her death. I wonder what I would make of her now?

“She always saw the good in everyone, right up until she died. She was trying to reason with the leader of a group of malcontents, Ewen, and he attacked her. We fought back, but only defensively. He killed her. I don’t think he meant to—I saw his face and those of his comrades. But he did, all the same.” It was only Rion’s surprise and dismay when Lydia fell that had convinced Maxwell to let him join the Inquisition.

A memory rose to the surface of his mind and made him smile. “She was an artist. Every year, the Circle put on a Wintersend celebration for Ostwick’s nobles. We’d put together ice sculptures for them.” He held out his palm, drawing out ice and shaping it the way she’d taught him. “One year, we made a dragon of ice that could spit fire. Amina helped create the contraption that made the fire: a mixture of naphtha and oil was stored in its stomach. Periodically, the mixture rose through the throat and came into contact with a flame rune. Everyone was quite impressed. The Teyrn herself congratulated us on our ingenuity.

“Of course, it was liquid fire, so someone was always one hand to douse the flames before they reached the floor. And the dragon’s muzzle kept melting. I was one of the apprentices on flame-snuffing duty.

“I don’t have Lydia’s gift, but…ah, there.” A little terrier of ice sat in his palm. “Other times, I made ice figures for noble children. We'd show them off, then dip them in warm syrup for eating. What else do you do with something that's going to melt in a few moments?” He handed her the ice dog. “Here. It can cool your water for you.”

She took the little dog and put it in her cup. “Thank you, Inquisitor."

“You're welcome. Senior Enchanter Lydia could create such delicate, detailed sculptures. One Wintersend, she created a miniature Ostwick for the children to play in.”

“Did mages get to enjoy these parties?”

“We did. The apprentices and less experienced mages, such as myself, worked in half-hour shifts serving drinks, repairing ice sculptures, lighting torches and so on. It was boring work, but not demanding. We had plenty of time to socialize. Not that I took advantage of that often. I often retreated to my room to read, even with my family in attendance. My father is a very…colourful personality.” He’d always demanded Maxwell show off his magic or asked for stories of life in the Circle, heedless of how Maxwell hated speaking in groups. “A little of him goes a long way. And I barely knew the rest of my family. They were strangers to me, and I’ve never enjoyed small talk with strangers.”

“I wish my family’s Wintersend parties had been half so fun. Wintersend in Nevarra is a solemn affair when your uncle is a Mortalitasi. We children were expected to entertain our uncle’s guests with a song or a play.” She snorted. “I once entertained a duke by challenging him to a duel in a fit of pique over some insult I’ve long forgotten. Not quite what my uncle had in mind. Perhaps Anthony and I had more fun with our parents, but I barely remember them.”

He enjoyed hearing about Cassandra's past, dark though it could be at times. His thoughts travelled to Cassandra’s own quest to recreate the Seekers. She’d said she’d show every Seeker the book the former Lord Seeker had given her. She’d said no more secrets.

Vivienne had once mentioned that every Circle was different. Her experiences with her Circle had seemed a world away from Maxwell’s. If there was a way to standardize the Circles, it would be easier to see which Circles were falling short of those standards. Seekers’ visits could become a regular occurrence instead of an occasion that bred fear and suspicion among the templars. These visits would be a check-up to the system to make sure it was working properly.

_As if anyone would welcome that._ Maxwell sighed. _I’d be known as a micromanaging busybody if I suggested it._

Footsteps of an armoured figure sounded on the stair to the basement. The footsteps of a templar, Maxwell assumed. He set his cup down and straightened up, lacing his hands behind his back. He was right: Ser Delrin Barris, Knight-Commander of the Templar Order, descended the stairs. He nodded to Maxwell and Cassandra.

“Inquisitor, I hoped to speak with you earlier today, but you’ve been occupied each time I approached.”

“What about, Knight-Commander?” Delrin was handsome, Maxwell realized, then wished he hadn’t.

“I wish to apologize for having an impostor in the midst of my own order. I’ve been going through the rolls all morning to see if I can catch other discrepancies.” His expression was troubled. “Many documents were lost when the Order fractured, but that’s no excuse not to try.”

“You’ve had a thousand things to deal with, Ser Barris. Something slipped through the cracks, that’s all.” Maxwell was also in charge of a massive organization without countless moving parts. He could sympathize.

“I also wanted to ask you about the circumstances of Cadogan’s banishment.”

“Oh? What about?” His hands, still clasped behind his back, clenched.

“Ostwick’s templars never joined us at Therinfall. They’ve been missing since the Circle fell. I have no one else to ask to learn what the Order might have done differently to prevent his abuses. I’ve spoken to Rion and the prisoner already. I wondered if you had any thoughts.”

“There was nothing that could have been done differently,” Maxwell replied. _I didn’t talk. I didn’t talk, and Amina suffered. Likely others did, too. It’s all my fault._

“If I may, Inquisitor,” Cassandra said quietly.

_She isn’t going to tell him anything_, Maxwell reassured himself. Still, it took him a few moments to muster, “Yes?”

“You have mentioned Cadogan’s partner, who was also banished from the Order for accepting bribes and contraband. Do you know if they were paired together often?”

“I believe templars were partnered in Ostwick’s order for years at a time,” Maxwell said. Thank the Maker no one asked him how he knew that.

“Having a different partner each shift might have given Cadogan fewer chances to abuse mages. Patrol pairs switch often in larger Circles I’ve been to.”

A thousand different protests flashed through Maxwell’s brain, but he kept his mouth closed. She hadn’t been there— She didn’t understand— He’d loved Dale— He’d failed everyone—

_And_, Maxwell admitted for the first time, _the Order failed me, too. Maker, it’s such a simple solution. How did no one think of it?_

_If it would even work_, he thought, frowning. Dale had been lucky that he only needed to convince one templar to keep quiet. Was Ostwick’s Order comprised of two evil people and the rest shining paragons of virtue? He might have been able to convince others.

Trying for neutrality, Maxwell said, “Perhaps.” That was somewhat undercut by the tears prickling at his eyes. He pretended to look about for his practice sword to avoid meeting Barris’s gaze.

“It’s a pity we need such mistakes to learn,” Barris said somberly. “I hope to do things differently in the new Order.”

_There is no ‘different,’ you fucking fool. It’s the same beast, the same chain, the same fangs in mage’s throats._ Was that a demon? Maxwell’s own thoughts? He couldn’t tell. Maker, he needed this man out of here.

He pretended to find his sword and moved to pick it up, turning his back to Barris as he did so. “When I return from Adamant, I hope we might discuss the Order, Ser Barris. I remember the sad affair with Cadogan and Carter well. I’d not see it repeated.”

“Of course, Your Worship," Barris replied. "I look forward to it.” He turned and left as Maxwell picked up his wooden sword.

Once his footsteps receded, Maxwell threw his sword down. He tried to focus on breathing evenly, but his breath kept hitching.

_I am Maxwell Trevelyan, of the Ostwick Circle of Magi_— he began before realizing he didn’t need to. He heard no demonic whispers.

He looked over his shoulder at Cassandra, who was watching him intently as she kept the area around him free of the Fade. He would follow her anywhere, he realized then. Whatever she wanted from him, she would have. He felt such a strong surge of love and shame that his tears finally fell. He wiped them off his cheeks, sniffling.

“I cannot do much for you, my friend,” she said quietly. “But I can silence their voices for a time.” She glanced away for a heartbeat before meeting his gaze. “I wish I could do more.”

“You waste your abilities on me. A stupid boy who let his love overtake duty, and others suffered for it. Being locked in a cell for a few weeks was nothing. Not compared to—to what he did to Amina.” Would she have wanted him to link her name to this? She was more than what Dale had done to her. She’d been a clever inventor. She’d convinced the senior enchanters to let a book-loving 13-year-old become a junior librarian. She’d been kind.

“And there were others,” Maxwell added. “That’s what I wanted to ask Dale—to ask Cadogan about. I was the first, I think. And we continued for four years. So anything that happened next was my fault.

“I actually thought he’d tell me about other mages he….” He couldn’t quite land on a word. Had he hurt them like he’d hurt Amina? Or had he seduced them like he’d seduced Maxwell? “I can’t believe—why did I think that?” He shook his head. “He lied to me. Of course, he did. He thought he could talk his way out of his cell. I should have known…but I was so stupid….”

He was still crying like a child. “Maker, it hurts. I didn’t think it still hurt this much. It’s as if I’ve walked down a hallway every day, only to turn my head and see a room I’ve never seen before. I thought I’d put everything behind me. But it was there all along.”

Cassandra nodded, her brow creasing thoughtfully. “Oftentimes, we don’t feel the effects of certain blows until years later. The body numbs pain and emotion just to allow one to function. You were young when it started, weren’t you?”

“I was old enough to know it shouldn’t have happened.” But he’d gone through with it anyway. And when Andraste didn’t strike him down or send him nightmares of drifting in the Void beyond the Maker’s light, it had been easy to believe She meant for them to be together.

“He was the first man you loved?”

Maxwell nodded. He didn’t look at her. He’d rather die than see pity on her face.

“Have you fallen in love since?”

He recoiled. “Sweet Maker, of course not.” Romance had never even crossed his mind. He couldn’t stop his body’s reactions to attractive, interesting men, but he never seriously entertained dalliances or relationships. Love could go terribly wrong; Maxwell wasn’t about to put himself in that position again.

“The Maker gives us all a desire for love and connection. To have that natural desire turned against you is no small hurt, Inquisitor. I think you have handled the shock well.”

He snorted in disbelief. “I attacked a prisoner, fell apart in front of a subordinate, and wept in front of one of my closest allies!” He glared at her. He knew exactly what this was. “Don’t coddle me, Cassandra. I’m not a child.”

“You did not fall to demons—”

“The bare minimum—”

“—you sought peace from Andraste and counsel from your allies, and weeping under these circumstances is not the mark on your character you claim it is.”

“I am the Inquisitor. I have to be strong.”

“You_ are _being strong, Inquisitor.”

Maker, she was stubborn. Had she been listening to him at all? Maxwell shook his head, but didn’t have the willpower to keep arguing. He’d gotten much better at expressing and arguing his views since becoming Andraste’s Herald, but he had no reserves of strength today.

His tears were ebbing, at least. “I’m just…I’m tired of this.” He gestured irritably to his wet cheeks.

“I cannot say more practice will help, but it will at least bring your focus elsewhere. Shall we?”

“Yes, of course.” He picked up his sword and turned to face her. He wasn’t in the mood for fighting, but battles rarely happened when you were in the mood for them.

He had Adamant to prepare for, and the Inquisitor must lead his people into battle.

* * *

Maxwell was not feeling good, exactly, after his training. But he felt comfortably drained of thought and energy. Perhaps Andraste had provided him with Her blessing after all.

“I’ve got to do some research,” Maxwell said as they put their practice swords away. He was panting heavily, while she was quickly regaining her breath. “I’ll be all right on my own.”

“I know. You can speak to me at any time, day or night, if your burdens grow too great. I would help you however I can.”

He believed her. Perhaps it was a comforting lie, but he did. “Thank you, Cassandra. For everything.” He startled himself by wanting to hug her. Fortunately, he kept his arms motionless at his sides.

“You’re welcome. Take care, my friend.” So many people spoke of Cassandra's strength and determination. They didn't mention her kindness. Maxwell would tell anyone who asked how deep her kindness ran.

She left before him. Gingerly, he examined his feelings for her. They were strong, certainly. Stronger than they should be on so slight an acquaintance, perhaps. Were his feelings toward her romantic or, Maker forbid, sexual? He would do nothing to jeopardize this friendship, of course, but it was still knowledge worth having. Being interested in a woman would have nothing to do with Dale.

He imagined kissing Cassandra and felt nothing. Imagining what lay beneath her armour produced nothing more than guilt at thinking about her so crudely.

_Well, I suppose that’s that._ He sighed. His preference for men may be tangled up with awfulness, but it was his, at least. If he could have felt anything for any woman, it would be Cassandra.

_Let it be friendship. That’s complicated enough._

He ascended the stairs, walked through a busy great hall, and went to his room. Madame Vivienne’s servant had dropped off a sleeping potion and another pot of jasmine tea.

Maxwell sat at his desk with his books. Sunlight streamed in from the massive glass windows, and mountain wind howled outside. He kept a quill, ink and paper beside him as he read to jot down interesting details.

As he started on _Chantry Histories: Reform and Revolution_, his thoughts kept returning to what he’d been mulling over before Ser Barris had interrupted: that there should be no more secrets. Why should investigations only be read by a Circle’s senior leadership? Perhaps he didn’t need to know the names of the other mages Dale had taken advantage of, but he would have liked to have known how many. Now, only Dale knew, and Maxwell certainly wasn’t going to visit him again. He’d never get a straight answer there.

_He called me a hog_, Maxwell remembered suddenly. _“You’re dark as a hog my dad bought at market one day,” he said, and he laughed as if it was funny._ That comment had made Maxwell notice how dark his skin was for the first time. He’d felt vaguely ashamed of his skin colour, when it had been one shade among many at Fairbrook Hall and meant little at the Circle apart from a few children’s comments. Dale had never been particularly kind or concerned with Maxwell’s pleasure, but Maxwell had overlooked all of that.

_Those golden hair beads I gave him…I only managed to get him three or four. They were so small—they couldn’t have been worth that much, could they? Hardly enough to justify the risk. If he wanted to make extra coin, there must have been simpler ways. What was the point? Or was having power the only point?_

Maxwell sighed. He’d already thought more than enough about Dale today. He forced his attention back to the Circle.

Every Circle was different, Madame Vivienne had said. How could mages and the Order work toward a common Circle if they’d all lived in such different worlds?

He was the Inquisitor. If anyone could form an inquiry into the Circles to determine how they should best be run, he could. He could ask templars and mages throughout Thedas for their experiences in their Circles. He could create a series of essays or interviews in addition to a formal report.

And he could contribute. He should, in fact. On impulse, he took out a fresh sheet of paper, wet his quill, and began writing.

_My name is Maxwell Trevelyan. I was born in 9:21 Dragon and sent to the Circle at Ostwick in 9:28. _

_While I was there, a templar _

He hesitated. He wrote _abused_, then crossed it out. He tried _raped_, but crossed that out as well. _Seduced_ likewise got crossed out; it made him sound an innocent lamb, when he’d been far from innocent.

_Although, I was only 13_, he reminded himself. Cassandra had been right about some things. _I had few friends, Dale pretended we had things in common, he gave me treats and made me feel special…._

_I still should have told someone, of course. But we were created to seek connections. Perhaps I don’t need to be so hard on the boy I was._

He frowned. If he forgave himself for that, who knew what vileness he’d excuse next? His inaction with Dale had hurt Amina. How convenient that he was thinking of forgiving himself now that she was dead, never able to remind him of his crime.

Looking at his sheet of paper, he held it out and summoned flame, burning it in seconds. He wasn’t ready to share this yet. But he might be someday. And even if he never was, he could still make Circles safe for future mages. He would ask Madame Vivienne about her contacts in Orlais tomorrow.

He read for a few hours, making notes and drinking tea. Dinner was chicken breast seasoned with rosemary and thyme, a baked potato, and boiled vegetables. He stopped himself from ordering a strawberry tart for dessert. As the sun sank behind the mountains, he drank Madame Vivienne’s sleeping potion, changed into his night clothes and lay down.

If there were any demonic whispers, he didn’t hear them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by the amazing sunseekerknight. Please check out more of her art at sunseekerknight.tumblr.com.


	4. I shall not fear the legion, should they set themselves against me

Vivienne kept important letters in the false bottom of a warded box that ostensibly held dangerous potions ingredients. These letters weren’t the originals—those, she burned—but copies she had rewritten in a cypher of her own devising. She was certain Sister Leliana could break her cypher, given time, but she intended to make reviewing her correspondence as difficult as possible for the Inquisition’s spymaster.

In truth, most of these hidden letters were personal effects, with little tactical value to the Inquisition. Many of them were from Duke Bastien during their courtship, containing details quotidian and scandalous. But a few were from trusted friends.

One of those friends was the late senior enchanter of Ostwick Circle, Lydia Russel, who’d written to Vivienne about a situation with her prized student four years ago. She’d mentioned no names, but she’d divulged enough details that Vivienne had suspected the truth when she first met the Herald of Andraste. When Maxwell had confirmed his closeness to Lydia during one of their first conversations in Haven, Vivienne had known his history. She’d packed Lydia’s letters to get more insight into the man who would become the Inquisitor.

Vivienne was not surprised when Leliana visited her in her chambers that evening, but she was disappointed. She’d hoped her wards or spycraft would have held out a bit longer than a few months.

Leliana was not one for small talk. “‘The son of a local noble, studious and hard-working, who but for his magic would have been a blessing to any Chantry he served in.’ From what I know of him, it’s a fitting assessment of our Inquisitor. Miss Russel was an insightful woman.”

“Have you read all my letters, or just the ones about him?”

“I, personally, have read nothing. My colleagues tell me what is relevant.”

Vivienne dismissed the hooded spymaster by moving to her liquor cabinet. “Would you care for a nightcap, my dear? I ordered a sumptuous brandy from Val Royeaux when I was last there.”

“I don’t drink, but thank you.”

“Suit yourself.”

The spymaster watched silently as Vivienne poured herself a brandy, then swirled it around the snifter to warm it with her hand. Leliana's silence was designed to be filled, but Vivienne wasn’t about to play her little game.

Vivienne sat down in a chair, relaxed and open. After a few moments, she took a sip. “Ah, perfection.” She nodded to the chair opposite her. “Will you sit, or do you only wish to stand and glower?”

“I’ll stand.” The Nightingale inhaled softly through her nose. Did her chest even expand when she breathed? She could be so unnervingly still. “Earlier today, I found myself thinking of my role as Divine Justinia’s Left Hand. In that role, I protected her and removed impediments to her vision. I solved problems.

“Our Inquisitor does not ask me to solve problems in the same way. He is a kind man, who’s used to a quiet life.”

“In the field, he often calls on bandits and other enemies to surrender,” Vivienne agreed. Few took him up on that offer, unfortunately. Varric had mentioned once that he’d vomited after his first battle in the Hinterlands, sickened by all the death he’d caused.

“He uses my scouts and my researchers. Truly, I appreciate his passion for learning, and I believe it will serve him well in the challenges to come.” Leliana paused. “And yet, good people do need protection. At times, they need protection they would not even think to ask for.”

After Maxwell had confided in her, Vivienne had set her servants to learning about his day. She’d heard about his visit to the dungeon, and how the prison guard had run across the courtyard to Cassandra, her face white as a sheet.

For the moment, Maxwell was concerned with his duty at Adamant Fortress. But, should the Inquisition triumph, how long could he ignore the cause of so much grief and pain when it lived so close to him? Vivienne wished she could trust Maxwell. But people did not always do what was best for them. They obsessed over their hurts. They grew bitter. They fell, becoming demons.

Maxwell could not fall. The very thought made her heart clench, much as it had clenched when Maxwell had wept before her. She’d wanted to stroke his hair as if he were a child—a surprisingly foolish miscalculation. How fortunate that he’d stopped her when she reached out to him. He was not a child. Certainly not her child.

She had no doubt Leliana could make Cadogan’s death seem like a suicide. She could tie his bedsheets to the cell bars and make it seem as if he’d strangled himself, for one. Denam would be a complication, but his food could be drugged so he would sleep through anything.

But how would Maxwell feel to hear of a suicide in his own prison? It might create the very problem they were hoping to solve. He might always wonder what Cadogan would have admitted.

It would be so pleasant to hear of Cadogan’s death—too pleasant. Vivienne needed to guard against her base emotions, which cried out for vengeance against any who had hurt Maxwell.

“The Inquisitor seems well protected, for now,” Vivienne said. “But who knows what the future will bring? If further measures are required, may we revisit this topic?”

“Of course.” Leliana held her gaze for a moment, then said, “You know the world you seek will create more mages who were victimized just as he was. That he can’t see that, I understand. Trauma can twist the truth. I suppose I’m more disappointed in you, Madame de Fer.”

This was hardly the first time she and Leliana had spoken of their opposing views of mage freedom. “And you’re welcome to that disappointment, my dear Nightingale. Have you spoken with Solas about your views? You’ll find him quite sympathetic. If you two had your way, we’d have abominations and mage-fearing mobs throughout Thedas.”

“Your friend wrote, ‘I will forever be haunted by what we let happen in Ostwick Circle.’ I wonder if you will ever feel the guilt she felt.”

“That was Lydia’s guilt to carry, not mine. Of course, we cannot stop every misuse of power within every Circle. But we can work within the system we have to eliminate the worst abuses. Destroying what has kept mages and Thedas safe for centuries will lead to more bloodshed and death than the alternative.”

Leliana smiled. From what Vivienne had seen of her, her smiles never reached her cool blue eyes. “We shall see, Madame Vivienne. I do hope you sleep well.” She glanced at Vivienne’s liquor cabinet. “You may wish to order some more brandy. It seems you’re almost out.”

Ah, implying that she drank too much. How mature. “Andraste watch over you, Leliana.”

“And you as well.” She said it like an insult.

Her chambers seemed brighter and airier once the spymaster left. Vivienne finished her brandy and set her glass aside. The bottle was getting rather low, she noticed with a frown.

Vivienne normally would have gone to sleep, but tonight she didn’t feel tired. She decided to make a few more sleep tonics for the Inquisitor. It was the least she could to do for him.

_I will protect him now that you cannot, Lydia._ _I will try to guide him as best I can. _If Vivienne was religious, she might have prayed, but she was not. Faith was a language she could speak and a tool she could use, but it had never once touched her heart.

If the Templar Order were restored, more mages would be hurt. Pain happened everywhere, in Circles and outside them. That was reality. But fewer mages would be hurt, eventually, in a healthy system that worked as designed.

Mages such as Maxwell were a necessary casualty until that day. It was unfortunate, but the world was often an unfortunate place.

Vivienne took out her potion ingredients and set to work.


End file.
